Bors stroked his beard thoughtfully.
There was apparently much more to organising a tournament than pulling a bunch of guys together, giving them a pep talk and letting them get on with it. Whilst he was not, by any means, a stupid man - he passed the fucking Trial of Thought in the Enchanted Forest, didn't he? - he could not help but think that this sort of organisational competence was somewhat beyond his skill set.
He looked at the list of suggestions prepared for him by Tasko, the man Pallemedias had recommended handing the whole business to. Like that dark-skinned swordsman, Tasko was from somewhere far away from Tintagel and seemed to possess all the various bits of knowledge of which the big man felt himself so short. He also talked—a lot.
After what felt like most of his adult life, Bors raised his hand to stem the tide of words. "So, to summarise, what you're saying is that this thing should - ideally - run over three days?"
"Not at all, my lord. I am just suggesting that, in order to maximise the profits from the various stalls and concession outlets you will doubtless be commissioning, my research and experience would suggest that three days is well positioned in the sweet spot between novelty and consumer fatigue."
Bors blinked. "I didn't understand most of that."
Tasko smiled back. "I know, my lord. And that's why my second recommendation would be to hire me to take care of the minor details for you. That way, you can be reassured that all of the complicated, insignificant details are handled, and you can concentrate on the fighting and suchlike."
"He's a crook," Pallemedias had told him the night before. "An absolute, stone-cold-robber-Baron of the highest order. But, as far as these things go, he's an honest one. He's been connected to my family for years, and my father has yet to lop off any of his limbs, so I guess that probably tells you everything you need to know. My advice would be to let him scam you for an amount you can live with, and he'll solve more headaches than he'll cause."
Bors pushed the scroll back towards Tasko and glowered at him. Tall, lean, and with thick, black hair that he kept in a tight braid, the man certainly looked like a wealthy merchant. If Pallemedias had not given him the head's up, Bors would have been none the wiser to his . . . less salubrious habits. Fake it until you make it, he guessed.
"Here's the deal. For me, this ain't about the money."
Tasko opened his mouth, gold teeth flashing in the light, but Bors pressed on before he could speak. "We need men. Good men. Men who'll stand a shield wall, day in, day out. We need men that bards will sing about and who live for nothing more than sticking the spear in the guts of Saxons. So I need something that'll attract every swinging dick in the land. And possibly across the sea, too. I want this to be the greatest tournament in these Isles. But I need it to happen quickly.
"I understand," the wheels behind Tasko's eyes were already whirling. The abacus too . . .
Bors pressed on. "I can sort the categories for the bouts and everything like that - the gods know I've fought in enough of them over the years - but for everything else, I'm looking for a likely lad to hand it all over to. I ain't got a head for numbers so I won't be looking too closely at that side of things." If possible, the merchant's smile grew even wider. "But I'm going to be all about the results."
Bors stood and rested his hands on the wooden table that separated the two. "I believe I have a reputation for a certain single-mindedness. My men will tell you that when I am happy, there's no one better to share a mug of ale with. On the other hand, it's been mentioned that my displeasure can be - " the table groaned as he pressed down on it -"intense. My best mate has asked for a tournament to swell our army. I've never let him down in my life. If you tell me you can make this happen, and you do," Bors opened his arms and beamed, "then we're all good—friends for life. I'll name my next kid after you. But if you overpromise and underdeliver . . ." He brought both hands down on the table, reducing it to kindling.
Tasko jumped backwards and pressed himself against the stone wall, eyes suddenly huge.
"So, what do you think? Do we have a deal?"
*
"I hear you have been giving the 'I'm either your best friend or your worst enemy' talk again."
Bors turned at the sound of the familiar voice. He was standing on Tintagel's battlements, staring out over the narrow stone bridge that connected the island on which the castle stood with the mainland. He knew it was insanely early to hope to see the procession of kings return - it wasn't like Caeldfwch would be a week's ride from these gates, but he lived in hope.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
"You're hearing an awful lot of late, my lady." Guinevere stood at his shoulder, that mischievous glint in her eye once again. It had been one of the real sorrows of his life to see that glimmer gutter and die over the last few years.
"Hard not to when you need the Royal Carpenter every few days. Other intimidation tactics are available that do not require the demolishment of furniture."
"True, but it's so damn satisfying."
Guinevere laughed and brushed her hair away from her face. She, too, gazed out into the distance as if wishing she could make the quest be completed faster just by sincerely hoping for it.
"I have a considerable volume of available information on this Tasko, if you are interested?"
"Unless any of it suggests he has a habit of risking his life when threatened in the most explicit of terms?" Guinevere shook her head in response. "In that case, I will rely on the old faithful of blind terror to get the job done. I hear he's already dispatched couriers?"
"Indeed. He appears to be working every hour the gods send to ensure this will be a tournament to remember. A fortnight, his missives say."
Bors' eyebrows shot up. "So soon?"
"Did I not mention he's running around like his arse is on fire? It would be tomorrow if he could portal everyone here. He is giving every impression of being very motivated indeed."
"Maybe I did lay it on a bit thick . . ."
They stood in a companionable silence for a while.
"My lady, do I need to be concerned about how you have access to so much information of late? For example, I hear it is not uncommon recently for cultivators to come late into their powers - particularly since the death of Merlin - but likewise, there are dangers there which make Morgan's absence a worry. If you think I'm scary, you should see what Arthur looked like when he told me to ensure no harm befell you. You going 'boom' would be pretty life-limiting for me."
Guinevere laughed. He was glad she was able to make that noise again. "No, Sir Bors, it's nothing like that." Then she paused, weighing him up. She liked Bors. She liked him even more after reviewing the information the Grey held on him. He was that rare thing - exactly what he appeared to be: a big, belligerent psychopath who was loyal to his wife, rabidly so to his friends and with absolutely no hidden depths, secrets or shadowy alliances. If she couldn't share her recent experiences with him, she doubted there would be anyone else she could talk with.
Certainly not Arthur. Blæk had been clear about that.
"Sir Bors, can I trust you?"
Bors shrugged his massive shoulders. "Depends. Can you trust me to royally fuck up anyone who crossed you? Absolutely. Can you trust me not to take the piss if you're going to reveal something kinky about your sex life? Probably not."
"I guess that's a pretty clear demarcation line. Okay, so here's the deal."
*
Blæk moved silently through the corridors of Tintagel Castle.
It was no exaggeration to say that he had spent his whole life in the shadows of these buildings. Should anyone have marked his passage, and he was quite sure that he was not seen, they would have dimly recognised him, just enough to accept his presence but not sufficient to note him.
It was a useful skill.
As he moved, he ran his hands into the various nooks and crannies in the stonework and the hidden recesses of doors and windows where those of the Grey left their messages. In a society where literacy was an exceptionally rare talent, it was not an inconsiderable matter of pride to Blæk that each and every one of his informants was capable of reading and writing in a variety of languages.
Had Merline been aware of Blæk, he would have recognised him to be a cultivator of exceptional subtlety. Of course, that he - and others like him - had lived unknown under the very nose of that legendary wizard was a testimony to the potency of their abilities. Blæk would not have understood what was meant by Qi but would have been able to explain the process of wrapping his darkness around himself like a cloak and passing unseen through crowds of men.
What is more, Blæk, like his father before him, had a special connection with Metal Qi, which, although again, he would not have seen it in those terms, made him a frighteningly efficient assassin. His principal technique,
More than one visitor to Tintagel had failed to wake in the morning when the Queen deemed that their time on this earth was over.
Blæk had made quite a collection of slips of vellum when his hand reached for an alcove that had remained empty for many months. It was habit that made him check, rather than any expectation, so he was momentarily gratified that his fingers brushed parchment. As with all such unnecessary emotions, he squashed it down.
Retrieving the message, he slipped it into one of his many pockets and moved, with more alacrity than usual, to the dark space beneath Merlin's tower that he called 'home'. Although the entrance to his little room was wholly unhidden, anyone looking straight at it would find their eyes being tugged to the side and their thoughts elsewhere.
It was pitch black within Blæk's space, but that was no difficulty for him. He pulled the darkness around the letter inside himself, feeling refreshed by the action - he hadn't needed to sleep more than a few hours a week since childhood.
The message had only three words, but they made him snarl in an entirely uncharacteristic show of anger. How long had that message sat there? Had he neglected to check in on previous days?
He thought not.
But that was no matter. He needed to speak to his new mistress. In the swirl of darkness that marked his abrupt departure, the small message fluttered to the floor. A tiny flicker of light from a torch outside fell upon it so the words could be discerned just for a moment.
"Igraine was pushed."